darling, the stars don't fall for you
by lady lutka
Summary: they are searing heat and drunken gazes; greedy lips and sneering faces.—cana&bacchus


**summary:** _ **they are searing heat and drunken gazes; greedy lips and sneering faces.** —cana & bacchus _

**disclaimer: I hold no rights to FT**

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 _ **boy, look at you looking at me  
**_ _ **i know you don't understand  
**_ _ **you could be a bad motherfucker  
**_ _ **but that don't make you a man  
**_

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 _ **.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **.**_

 _darling, the stars don't fall for you_

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She watches him from the bar over the rim of a shot glass.

He attracts women like flies, drawing them in with his seductive smirk and bare arms. They crowd around him like he is a God-given monument that demands affection. He lets their hands run over his skin and entices the doll on his lap, where he clinks glasses with her and pours her another shot of cheap tequila.

Cana remains in her seat by the bar, watching; waiting. Once the clock strikes three a.m., he will stride confidently to her side and whisk her away—as is their tradition. She will snort at his shitty pickup lines and roll her eyes when he attempts to grab her hand, and he will try to ignore the way her big eyes seem to dull with each word he speaks.

The bartender pours her yet another double scotch, which she throws back with barely a wince. The men continue to squabble at her feet; they buy her more drinks and she obliges. Another offers her a cigar and she lights it with a match, breathing in the thick smoke and exhaling. Each breath stings just a little more than the last, she finds.

With a heavy sigh, she messily throws her hair into a ponytail and stands, her long skirt swirling around her bronze legs. She is a gypsy woman and he is the town badboy, a sight to behold indeed. Absentmindedly, she leaves the tavern and walks to the next where a new brew awaits. Like always, the men gawk at her seductive body as she pushes the door open and strides to the bar. She rolls her hips playfully, smirking when they crowd around her with their outstretched hands and struck expressions. She chooses her prey carefully and winks at him, taking the arm he presents to her. Cana makes quick work of him; a subtle touch here, a playful gaze there and they're all dropping at her call.

Surrounded in alcohol and cloaked in tobacco smoke, she entices them all. She is a deep, dark mystery, with honeyed skin and heavy lashes that fall over a smouldering dark gaze. Each night, she plays men like they are weeping harps and she plucks at their strings mercilessly. Cana can't help it; after all, women like her are never kind or patient.

"So this is where my wild doll found herself, eh?" he whispers in her ear just as the clock on the wall chimes out an empty tune.

Cana turns in her seat, cursing the electricity running over her skin as he watches her. She throws the man a cocky smirk, fingers habitually teasing the earring dangling from his ear. "So I'm your wild doll now?" she asks with a honeyed voice.

Bacchus chuckles in a voice roughened by one too many cigars. "You were always my wild doll."

They are kissing much too soon.

He grabs her hips in his rough hands, squeezes the soft flesh greedily. She is pressed to the side of a building, the pale moonlight casting delicious shadows across her skin. He is merciless, as is she. Cana battles his tongue with the spirit of a thousand armies and bites at his skin. Bacchus is not gentle—but, then again, she's always preferred her men rough and dirty (which is everything he is and she _hates_ him for it).

She doesn't want his wild ways—but she can't live without them. And _god_ is she such an idiot because men like him never settle for _just one_ , and women like her aren't meant to give men more than one night. But she is his wild doll and he is everything she could ever want and _more_.

"The first time I saw you, I just knew it—you were different. You didn't throw yourself at me; you fucking played me like some goddamned fool. God, I hate you for it," he growls into the side of her neck, and his hands are turning her joints to lead.

"I thought you said I was your wild doll," she recalls, tugging at the ribbon holding his hair away from his face. The dark tresses tumble forward and she yanks at the locks until he hisses against her lips.

"I tell all my dolls that."

"Then why are you with _me_ and not _them_?" she challenges. Bacchus' chest presses against her own familiarly—infernos take up residence in her stomach (and god, does she hate him for it).

"Because they're not you."

And her heart breaks just a little more.

 ** _._**

 ** _._**

 ** _._**

 ** _now you're just another one of my problems  
because you got out of hand  
we won't survive  
we're sinking into the sand_**

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 ** _._**

* * *

 **what just happened.**


End file.
